


A Fool by Any Other Name

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Episode: s04e05 His Father's Son, M/M, Merlin Canon Fest, Negotiations, eve of the battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 09:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: In which Annis wasn't born yesterday and knows a witch—or warlock—when she sees one, Merlin's had quite enough of Arthur's lonely-king-in-a-tower routine, and poor Gwilym presumably gets an earful.





	A Fool by Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Inspired by S4x05: His Father's Son by Jake Michie. Much of the dialogue is taken from the ep, though I have taken some liberties.
> 
> Thank you Canon Mods and Fabulous Festgoers! Please accept this quickie re-imagining of that scene in Annis' tent (and what happens after).

* * *

"You _know_ him?" Annis can't quite keep the shock from her voice. Something's very wrong here. Morgana hadn't mentioned…and surely Arthur would never?

"He's my servant," Arthur says. "He must've followed me here. I… I swear, I knew nothing about it." He looks panicked, so perhaps he's telling the truth. But this wasn't part of the deal, and if the boy's working on Arthur's behalf… 

"Kill him."

"Wait! Please. Let him go. He's just...a simpleminded fool." If he was panicked before, he's desperate now, his voice nearly cracking. Interesting. 

"That is two favours you've asked of me this night, Arthur Pendragon." She looks him in the eyes, searching for the lie, any hint of defiance—she remembers all too well that smug gleam Uther got in his eye—but finds only honest fear, resignation. 

With a sigh, she turns away. Were she back in her own council chamber, she would dismiss the men and pace alone with her thoughts, but that won't do here. There's no time and too much at stake, and she mustn't seem weak.

She crosses to her husband's chair and sits, disguising the way she clutches the arm with a fold of her cloak, careful to keep her face impassive. She's not quite sure what to make of it all.

Uther Pendragon's son, risking life and limb to sneak into her camp and humble himself? To offer an honourable way out of a battle that, if she's being honest, will do neither of their kingdoms much good save for the lessening of mouths to feed come winter? To offer her _half his bloody kingdom_—land Caerleon's army might have toiled several generations in taking, an achievement even her husband would never have dreamed of—for the price of a single life?

Not an hour ago she would have called the idea laughable. Now her mind's racing, wondering how he can possibly make such an audacious offer. Why. If it's a ruse of some sort, a trap.

Not an hour ago she would have called Arthur a coward, an arrogant whelp, and though he is a mere child—good lord the _face_ on him after she'd slapped him—now she sees that Morgana's whispers are far from the full truth. For there _is_ fear in the boy. Pride, too. Love.

But not for himself. 

She sees, now, that it's all for his men, his people, his—right here, right now, in this absurd moment—so-called servant, who may or may not be a fool in the traditional sense but is most certainly foolish in coming here, given how much he clearly means to Arthur, and is just as certainly possessed of _magic_. 

Annis glances to where the boy's crouched at Gwilym's feet. He's not much to look at—gangly, cheeks smooth as a girl's, expression like a sick hound—but she knows better than most that power, like death, can wear many guises.

Just what is he playing at? Whose side is he really on? If he, too, is working against Arthur, then she has nothing to fear. If not, she'd best hope Morgana is as powerful as she claims, or she'll be sending her champion to his grave.

She shouldn't take the chance. Best kill him now, remove him from the equation. Except…

She doesn't know the extent of his powers. Would he dare defend himself in front of Arthur? And that desperation in Arthur's eyes, that visceral fear when she'd first given the order; the boy's no mere servant. What is the exact nature of their bond? What might Arthur do if she followed through?

The deal's too good to risk him changing it. A chance at half of Camelot's land, spurned because she couldn't look past her own grief? That would never do. The men would think her irrational, or that she lacked faith in them.

It would be madness not to accept. If it's a trick or a trap, Morgana will see through it and Caerleon's army will be ready for war. 

If not, Annis has everything to gain. For even if her champion is defeated, Arthur will still be in her debt. She has to believe that means something to the man standing before her. There is much of Ygraine about him, for all he is clearly Uther's son.

"Very well," she says coolly. "You shall have your trial by combat. Announce your champion by noon tomorrow."

"Thank you, Your Highness." He bows to her, his relief palpable. There is still an edge to him though, shoulders tense and brow troubled, and Annis knows why: the boy, still grovelling, looking between her and Arthur with wide eyes.

She could be cruel and make him wait, make him beg—she has every right after the grief he's caused—but she finds she cannot stand a moment more of this. She narrows her eyes at him, lifts her chin.

"And take your _fool_ with you."

Arthur gives a brisk nod, eyes gleaming in the candlelight, and reaches for the boy. He hauls him bodily to his feet, spins him around and pushes him towards the tent flaps.

Once they've gone, Annis stands and gestures for Gwilym to approach. 

"Follow them. Quickly now, and silent as a shadow. Watch. Listen. I want to know what they're really up to, who Arthur has in mind for champion." 

"Yes, Your Highness." He raises the hood of his cloak. "And if they split up? Stick with the king?"

Annis doubts, somehow, that this will be a problem, but she keeps it to herself. "Yes. Report back to me here at dawn."

* * *

"Simpleminded fool?" Merlin hisses, struggling to keep pace up the hill. His legs are longer than Arthur's, and he's not weighed down by chainmail. He doesn't understand why that doesn't give him an advantage. Maybe it's because Arthur's legs are sturdier. Maybe it's all in the buttocks. Arthur certainly has the advantage in—

Merlin startles when yet another branch springs back in Arthur's wake, nearly smacking him in the face.

"Oh, I was being kind, believe me," Arthur calls out. "You almost got me killed in there."

"Me?" Merlin gives up trying to be quiet. "You seem to be doing a pretty good job of that yourself."

Arthur rounds on him suddenly, and Merlin nearly falls on his seat. "What is wrong with you?" he pleads, throwing his hands up. He sounds angry, but Merlin knows him too well, knows that there's more to it than that. Arthur's not the only one who might have been killed just now, and it's not his own life he's worried about. "Why can you never just let me be?" 

"I'm your _friend._" Merlin takes a step closer, willing Arthur to hear all that he means by that. "I was looking out for you."

Arthur makes an exasperated sound in his throat, then takes Merlin by the shoulders. "I appreciate that, in your very confused way, you're only trying to help." He gives Merlin a shake. "But, please, don't do it again. This is not your fight, and I can't be worrying about you—"

"Ha!"

Arthur shakes him again. "That is to say, worrying about whatever _nonsense_ you're getting up to when I've got a kingdom to run."

"Arthur." Merlin lifts a hand, places it on Arthur's chest. "All your fights are my fights. I—"

"No," Arthur cuts in, letting go. "_Me,_ Merlin. I alone am the king, and kings can't, they don't…" He trails off, head hanging down, then crosses his arms over his chest, as if he doesn't trust what they might do, and Merlin aches for him. 

Arthur clears his throat, raises his chin. "Kings do not have friends, do you understand? They have knights. Courtiers. Advisors. Subjects."

"And servants?" 

Arthur gives a stiff nod. "Yes. Exactly." He turns his back to Merlin and, after a moment's pause, continues up the path.

"Doesn't have to be that way," Merlin mutters.

"What was that?"

"Are you sure you know the way?" 

"Shut up and climb, Merlin."

He lets it go, remains silent for the rest of the journey. But back at their camp, when Arthur slips into his tent, Merlin follows him. He pours him a cup of watered wine, helps him undress and wash his face. Then, once Arthur has crawled under his furs, Merlin douses the candles, strips down to his tunic, and slips in beside him. 

Arthur tenses for a moment, then exhales. "What are you—"

"Stick to what you _do_ know," Merlin whispers viciously into the hollow of his throat. "That's what you said, just the other day, do you remember?" He hears—feels—Arthur swallow, hears the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat, feels how his muscles tremble with the effort of keeping still.

He presses his lips to the warm, fragrant skin of Arthur's neck, insinuating his arms around Arthur's chest, sliding a foot along his calf. "This is what I know. Serving you. So shut up and let me."

What he really means, of course, is "loving you," but that's not important. What's important is that he's not giving up. Arthur can brood and posture all he likes—can torture himself with silly rules now that he's king, using words as shields—but when the fires are banked and the stars are out, what's important is that he'll still welcome Merlin into his bed, into his arms, and hold him close.

What's important is that there's no way in hell Arthur's dying tomorrow.

* * *

It's still dark when Gwilym returns, but nearer dawn than dusk. Her page announces him, then busies himself replacing the candles that have burned out.

Annis rolls the map she'd been studying and sets it aside. She's barely slept, yet she's not sluggish in the least. She feels…cold, more than anything. Calm. Only a handful of hours now, and it will all be over. 

"Well?" She looks Gwilym over. He's hovering just inside the entrance, face flushed, clearly ill at ease. "Huw, get the man a drink. He's parched—or have they cut out your tongue?" 

Gwilym shakes his head. "No, Your Highness. But—" He accepts a cup of mead with a nod of thanks. ''—this is not for a young lad's ears, so."

"No?"

He grimaces. "Nor a lady's, Your Highness, if you take my meaning."

"Ah." Annis hides a smile in her shoulder as she gets to her feet. "Huw, once you've finished with the candles, go get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us."

And an interesting one, it seems. She's starting to wonder if it was a mistake, accepting Morgana's help. She's starting to think that Arthur Pendragon might be far more useful to her alive than dead. Two favours, and now this secret. She'd rather have that leverage over Camelot's throne than owe a debt to a scheming witch obsessed with vengeance.

* * *


End file.
